


In It Together

by Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog



Category: Aquaman (2018)
Genre: Arthur Has Issues, Fish boy out of water, M/M, Orm needs all the cuddles, Protective Arthur, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2019-10-22 08:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17659385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog/pseuds/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog
Summary: Orm has been banished to the surface. Arthur is determined to show him that's it's not so bad, as far as punishments go. Orm is determined to suffer regardless.





	1. Surface

**Author's Note:**

> Orm alternating between horrified at the surface world and dealing with his new brother, and needing all the cuddles and smooches is just /chefs kiss/ so until James Wan delivers, here's some fish boi shenanigans.

Arthur flicks pieces of chicken into the water, watches as the surface writhes with slick bodies, the eels curling around one another as they snap up the scraps.

 _Tasty, tasty treaty_ , they croak in their hissing little voices.

Arthur snorts, sucking the grease from his fingers. “You guys are gonna get too fat to swim, you know that?”

They ignore him, hissing happily as they continue to twist around the meat, gulping it down with their gaping mouths. It’s easy with their chatter filling his head to ignore the creak of the jetty behind him, keeping his eyes locked on their slick black bodies as his mother sinks down beside him. It’s surprisingly difficult not to just stare at her, and it’s been an embarrassing one too many times Arthur’s caught himself doing it, so he resolutely stares out over the water, even as she takes his hand. Her hands are callused, the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger rough, a coarseness at odds with her perfect silver half-moon nails, each one glittering like a fish scale.

“You need to go speak with him.” Her voice is soft, so very soft.

Arthur hardens himself against it. “If you mean my bouncing baby brother,” he replies in his most flippant voice, the one that always manages to get an irritated scowl from Mera. “I said I would when _he_ wants to. He’s a big boy, he can decide when he wants to talk.”

Atlanna runs her thumb over his knuckles, a slow stroke that Arthur helplessly focuses on, skin prickling under her touch. “He won’t ask when he finds out what has been decided. But he’ll need you, now more than ever. Please, Arthur.” She reaches out, slow, gives him time to move away, but despite the resentment, the hurt, he is still hungry for her touches and greedily closes his eyes when she smooths back his hair, calloused fingers brushing against his temple.

“Using Mom Powers is cheating,” he grumbles, finally glancing at her, and he’s rewarded with a smile that he helplessly returns.

She nudges his shoulder with her own. “I’ve got to practice them somewhere, don’t I?” Her smile really is a wonderful thing, and Arthur is certain he’ll never get sick of seeing it.

Then he pays attention to what she’s said, and glances at her in alarm. “Why does he need me? Did… did they vote against him or something? To execu-,” he pauses at the hot shard of pain that accompanies _that_ word and instead gesturing awkwardly at her, “To do the same as what happened to you?”

He can’t say it, can’t let himself dwell on years of worthless resentment and blame, believing his own mother hadn’t cared, or worse, that she’d died and it was his fault. Because the reality is better, worse, all kinds of fucked up now he knows she was trapped there alone for years, risking her life to get back to them, and he hadn’t even bothered to find out what had happened. If he’d asked, if he’d pressed Vulko all those years ago, his parents would have been together again, Orm would never have waged his war, and Arthur could have –

He cuts off that line of thought with a rough breath.

“They’ll take him to the Trench?” Arthur fights not to let anger colour his words at the thought.

“I don’t think the Trench would hold much danger to Orm now,” Atlanna says with a knowing look. Arthur squints at her, wondering if she had somehow known that was exactly what he had been thinking. None of those toothy fuckers would hurt his family if _he_ could help it, which he very much could, with the trident’s power.

“I know this is a lot to ask of you, and I’ve long lost the right to ask as your mother, leaving you so long,” Atlanna murmurs, gaze far away as she continues running her thumb over his hand. “But I have to ask it. This is your decision, your choice. If the idea is unpleasant, if you do not wish it, you do not have to take this path, but if you do, I would be most grateful.”

Arthur frowns, beginning to realise what his mom is hinting at. “He’d have you,” he offers slowly, but Atlanna shakes her head.

“He’ll need us both, I think.” She squeezes his hand with a sad smile. “I’m still a stranger to this world, but you he can learn from, you can be his teacher like your father did for me.”

Arthur groans at her guileless smile. “Can you not compare us to you and dad? That’s just… awkward.”

Atlanna kisses his cheek. “Stubborn surface boy,” she says fondly, and he rolls his eyes, tipping forward off the jetty into the water to the tinkling sound of her laughter. 

When Arthur arrives at the guarded door, he closes his eyes, let’s the sound of her laughter wash through him. Without Vulko or Mera beside him, Atlantis feels alien once again, lost in a place where his mongrel blood doesn’t belong. The doors swing open, and Arthur tries not to hesitate swimming inside. The doors shut with a rumbling boom that feels like an underscore, a crescendo. His final chance to turn back.

Orm floats by the enormous window that forms most of the wall, not turning at all as Arthur hovers uncertainly. His mother had told him to speak carefully, smiling crookedly as she pointed out how passionate Orm could be. Arthur swings his arms awkwardly, all his rehearsed lines sounding stupid now that he’s faced with the hard lines of his brother’s back resolutely turned away from him. Arthur still wishes she’d been the one to come here; speaking carefully wasn’t exactly what he was known for. Orm doesn’t so much as twitch as the silence continues, and Arthur remembers his parting words. He rolls his eyes. Pride, he suspects, is what is keeping his brother silent, a steadfast refusal to yield first. Well, Arthur wasn’t just going to float there like an idiot if Orm wanted to be all moody, being ignored was an excellent opportunity to be as nosy as he liked.

The prison is unexpectedly lavish, an allowance Arthur wonders is due to Orm’s former title, or a lengthy expected stay. His double-dealings would ordinarily be reason enough to send him to the Trench, but that method of execution seems unlikely now that Arthur commanded them as easily as any other creature. Prison, apparently, is not a common punishment, but the palace had already had a room prepared for him. The window is solid glass, not a simple shield like the one on Mera’s ship, reinforced that even the strongest Atlantean would struggle to break. The walls are iridescent coral, shimmering in the glow of the strips of pulsing light that circle the room, imbedded into the walls. They flash burning white when Arthur swims inside, before settling back to a cool blue. Books line the walls, and a small box that looks like some kind of harp sits on a table alongside a huge shard of sea glass that flashes with images like a bottle green tv screen.

Orm doesn’t look at him as Arthur, growing bored, prods at the bed, large and surprisingly soft, before drifting towards the window. Large, overlooking the whole city, the view Vulko promised.

Arthur would have appreciated the joke if it had been any other room.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” he offers, watching Orm’s face closely.

“This was Mother’s room.” Orm glances sharply at him and sighs. “But you knew that already.”

Arthur shrugs, kicking away from the window to drift to the bookshelf. “Mom warned me this is where you’d be held. Only place in Atlantis with the best security good enough for a high born, apparently.”

Orm’s expression flickers, eyes flashing in warning. Arthur absently notes that Atlanna’s do the same when she was upset. Good to know.

“Is there a reason you’ve decided to disturb me with your presence?” Orm snaps. “Or do you simply enjoy being irritating?”

Arthur grins and flicks his hair as best he can underwater, “Absolutely.” Orm’s expression turns thunderous, and Arthur quickly continues. “But not why I’m here. Mom’s spoken with the other kingdoms. They’ve decided on your sentence.”

Orm straightens, swallowing. Arthur follows the bob of that slender throat, pale as the moon.

“They’re exiling you,” Arthur says slowly, watches the dawning horror bloom on his brother’s face.

“To the surface?” he whispers, and it’s strange, hearing Orm so subdued. Arthur barely knows his brother, but he’s already clocked him as being… _theatrical_. Apparently grandstanding runs in the family. It’s a pleasant thought, and Arthur grins despite Orm’s growing fury.

“Don’t worry, baby bro.” Arthur claps Orm on the shoulder, ignoring his poisonous glare. “Look on the bright side! Mom says you get to room with me. We can stay up late and braid each other’s hair. Well, maybe not yours, but my hair is always up for a good braid.”

Arthur beams and pointedly ignores that Orm looks like he’d happily smother him in his sleep.

 

 

 

After the treaty with Xebel is struck, Orvus coldly informs Orm that they will be entertaining Princess Mera while King Nereus and Queen Hila left for the war. Atlanna says nothing, only nods as Nereus pushes his daughter forward, but Orm notices the strange spark light his mother’s eyes, and feels a ripple of excitement at the sight. He takes Princess Mera’s hand, dutifully bowing over it.

“It will be a great honour to have you, Princes Y’Mera Xebella Challa, in our home. Be welcome here,” Orm recites, and Vulko nods his approval.

Orvax grips Orm’s shoulder, presses his thumb into the soft skin. “Guard her well,” he intones solemnly, but his eyes are fixed on Atlanna. His thumb presses in harder, but Orm knows better than to cry out, keeping his expression blank, like Atlanna’s. Princess Mera bows her head respectfully, but her gaze is scorching hot. Orm suspects his betrothed is exactly as his father fears, a wilful disposition just like Atlanna’s. It’s a pleasing thought.

Despite Atlanna’s solemn quiet throughout the visit, Orm is aware of the energy rippling through her, hidden beneath her perfect stone smooth mask, the way her silver eyes watch Orvax guide the visiting nobles into the Grotto. Orm is expecting it, but it is still beautiful when Atlanna’s mouth curls into an excited grin once Orvax leaves, mask dropping to reveal the side of her only Orm gets to see. Princess Mera is pricklier than Atlanna, but Orm thinks she is very like his mother, a strange warmth like some inner fire that draws others close to them, trapping them with kind eyes and soft smiles. He is not thrilled at having to share Atlanna with her, but it is not so bad, being with Mera, and Orm is surprised to find he likes her cheeky remarks and wide smiles. And Atlanna seems to like them too, laughing as she instructs Mera on her fighting forms, guiding Mera’s hands to make the water swirl around her fingers with a patient smile. With Mera, away from Father’s cruel hands and sharp eyes, Atlanna can be softer, gentler, and for that, Orm is happy; for that, Orm is glad for Mera’s presence. They can practise together, swim the gardens together, explore the city as Atlanna guides them through busy crowds, and Orm can take Mera’s hand without worry for the future. Here and now, it feels like true peace.

But still, something burns when Mera comes with Atlanna on their next secret trip. That had been _their_ secret, his and Mother’s alone, that not even Vulko had been allowed to accompany them, sneaking away from the palace to swim unguarded, free from watching eyes. Atlanna had told him stories, tales from their history that were in none of his books, of times before Atlantis fell and they still walked the lands. She’d even told him stories from the surface, tales of monsters, of heroes, of great adventures. And afterwards, she’d always twine their fingers together, wrapped together by a single silver hair from her head, and whisper a promise to never tell a soul.

Now, Orm wants to scream as he watches Mera trading grins with his mother as they chase tuna and tickle enormous clams, drifting lazily towards the sea floor. He recognises the path they are taking, has swam it a hundred times before with Atlanna, but she cannot be leading them _there_. Not with Mera. His mother wouldn’t share those secrets with _her_.

The dark prow of the sunken ship looms out of the darkness. Kelp grows from the broken mast, waving slightly in the currents, as a shark swims lazily between rotting rigging, following a school of silvery fish that dart warily behind the stern. Around the ruptured wooden boards, the water glows silver, rushing over and over itself.

An air pocket, a secret only nobles knew how to make. A safe house, Atlanna had told him, when the sting of his father’s fists was still fresh. A place he could escape to, where he could speak without fear of being overheard. She’d said only Vulko knew of it. Only Vulko, and him, of course.

And now Mera.

Orm lags behind as Mera squeals with excitement, poking curiously at the wall of water before sticking her arm into the air pocket beyond. Atlanna smiles, tugging Mera with her through the wall. Orm does not move, curling his fingers until his blunt nails bite into his palms. The pain is a distraction, tearing him away from the swirl of emotion inside his chest.

It is strange. Before now, he’d only ever used that distraction when he was with Orvus.

Atlanna sticks her head back out into the water, holding out a hand. “Are you coming, Orm?”

Mera sticks her head out, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s _amazing_ , Orm! C’mon, I wanna show you what I found. It’s a surface machine! It’s so _weird._ ”

The anger is blinding, too strong for him to even begin to understand, but all he wants is to scream, to tear at those smiles until nothing is left. He turns and swims, shooting away towards the distant lights of the city.

Atlanna finds him in the old ruins, perched on an enormous stone hand long since separated from the statue’s body. Orm doesn’t look at her, even as she runs her hands through his hair, brushing back golden strands.

“You are unhappy I took Mera with us,” she guesses, and Orm twists away from her.

“Go away,” he snarls, furious that she knew, she _knew_ , and still she brought Mera along.

Behind him, he hears her sigh, and worries for a moment that she _will_ leave, before her arms curl around him, pulling him close.

“You are precious, Orm,” Atlanna croons softly. “Most precious. Most loved. And you will always be my son, my darling boy. And one day, you will marry Mera, for our kingdoms, for our alliance. And for you, my hope is that your queen will not be as Orvax is for me. I want someone kind and strong and daring for you. Together, you could accomplish so much, bring so much to Atlantis, and all I can do is try and lead you both towards that shining future. Do you understand?”

Orm wriggles slightly in her arms, satisfaction at her words, that she still puts _him_ first, smoothing away the lingering hurt. “I suppose so,” he says magnanimously, and she playfully nips at his cheek.

“Come with me,” Atlanna says, tugging him off the stone hand. “I have a surprise, just for you, if you’re willing to share it with Mera.”

Orm scowls at the thought.

“She is a princess, Orm, someone who can be your equal. I would share these things with you both, so that you can both understand.” Atlanna swirls around him, her silver hair a shimmering blanket that encases him. “And it isn’t so bad to play with someone else,” she adds hopefully.

He reaches out, winding his hand into the trailing strands of silver hair. Her smile widens at the affectionate gesture. “What’s the surprise?”

Her grin turns cheeky. “A surprise is a surprise.” She runs her hands through his hair, smoothing it back again. “I hadn’t meant to show you so soon, but I think you’re ready. You are so strong, my son, and I am so proud of you. So come, I will show you something _truly_ wonderful.”

 

 

King Nereus is a staunch traditionalist, but he is not at all like Orvus, letting Mera join him and Atlanna, lets her swim freely with only Vulko trailing them. Orm suspects he would not be so lenient if he knew Atlanna’s idea of chaperoning involved trips far beyond the city gates. Not that Orm would ever let on, _he_ knows how to keep his mother’s secrets. And if he must deal with Mera’s presence, well, that is not so bad if the little princess can make his mother smile so freely. Still, he scowls when they rejoin Mera and she sticks out her tongue at him. If she _must_ join them on their secret trips, he has no obligation to be a good prince anymore.

He flinches at a pinch at his side.

“Still grumpy?” Mera says with a shark grin.

Orm slashes a hand through the water, the motion sending Mera tumbling in a flurry of bubbles. She rights herself, hair in disarray, with a delighted laugh. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Atlanna nod, and something deep inside his chest begins to unravel.

Orm takes no notice of where his mother is leading them until they swim into brighter, warmer waters.

He stops, terror rising in him at the sight. Beside him, Mera trembles, smile no longer on her round face. He can _see_ the surface, can see the bright shards of light breaking through rippling waves, and every story he’s ever heard, every warning his father has ever told echoes in his head.

“My queen?” Mera calls out, voice small.

Atlanna glances back, and it’s a shock to see how stern her face is, a hardness Orm recognises from the training room. She holds her hands out, curling her fingers, and a current gently tugs Orm and Mera towards her.

Kicking out against the current, Orm frowns at his mother. “It’s forbidden. The surface, it’s _dangerous_.” Those words aren’t his, they’re Orvax’s, a mantra as familiar as swimming.

His mother’s eyes flash, a warning sign, but she still swims back to them, taking both their hands in hers. “I never told you about where I went when I left, before your birth. All those years ago, I ran where I knew they would be unable to follow. Where Orvax would not.”

Orm stiffens in surprise, glancing sharply at Mera. Her greys eyes are round as she glances back at him. This, this is a dangerous secret to keep, one of the first of Atlanna’s Orm is unsure he wants.

 Atlanna glances between them, a line creasing her smooth brow as they remain silent. She swallows, and Orm feels the slight tremble in her hands against his fingers. “I escaped… and I came here. To the surface.”

The words are terrible, a betrayal, but even as Orm instinctively flinches back, a thrill courses through him. His mother does not move, eyes shining with that same dangerous light he had glimpsed in the past, the hidden steel that lingers in his mother’s face when his father does not look. Orm turns away from that look, does not want to know the things that lie in that look. Instead, he trades glances with Mera again, and he sees the same revulsion and helpless fascination reflected there at Atlanna’s words.

The surface.

“Why do we need to come here?” Mera ventures, and Atlanna at last looks away from Orm, focusing on her. Orm shivers. The dangerous light still shines in his mother’s eyes. They glint, no longer the cool silver but a cold blue that flashes, the surface light illuminating them in a way they never have. Orm’s shoulders pull tight, his mother suddenly an alien thing, foreign in a way he does not know.

Atlanna’s face splits into a shark-grin, too full of dark promise. “Because here, on the surface, you will learn of a world all others fear to go. You won’t be shackled by superstition or blinded by hate. Here, you will be free of all that. On the surface, you can find power in what Atlantis fears. You can find freedom.”

She turns her gaze back on Orm, ducking her head to meet his eyes. The strange blue softens to something familiar, and Orm feels the dread ease from his shoulders. “Do not fear, my littlest prince.” She ducks her head, presses a brief kiss to his fingers. “I will be with you.”

Orm straightens his shoulders, holds his head up, and nods. For you, he thinks. For you.

Atlanna pulls them upwards, towards the rippling surface of blinding light.

Their heads break the surface, and Orm immediately jerks in surprise, ducking back beneath the waves. The sensation of _air_ is sharp, like a slap, unpleasantly tingling across his skin, burning his eyes, his lips. It’s only soft hands guiding his chin up, eyes on the silver strands of his mother’s hair as they fan out on the surface, that Orm relaxes enough to watch, copies his mother with her eyes only breaching the surface. Atlanna raises her head slightly until her nose is above the water and blows bubbles. Mera giggles beside him, and Orm turns to hide his scowl. But he will not give in, not before her. Atlanna smiles and raised her chin to show them her empty mouth, water trickling past her lips as she breathes in and out. They copy her, and Orm fights not to smile when, unlike _him_ , Mera hiccups and coughs as she sucks in her first lungful of air.

Atlanna beams at him. “Well done, my littlest prince,” she croons, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.

He blinks his stinging eyes, the _air_ painful in his lungs, prickling across his skin in a way he does not like, but he smiles back just to see the pleased flash in his mother’s eyes as she gives him her secret smile.

The surface is dazzling, a carpet of jewels made of white fire, _sunlight_ glittering on the tip of every wave. Overhead, birds circle and twist, every now and then tucking away their wings to turn into spears that cut through the air and slice into the water. Orm ducks back below the surface, watches the wings beat under the water as the birds glide as easily as the mackerel wriggling in their beaks. They flap their way to the surface, throwing back their heads to swallow the mackerel, before taking off into the air once more. Orm marvels at them, how they move between air and water without pause, and wonders if he could do the same. Here, with his mother laughing as Mera dives between the waves, twisting after the diving birds, he feels like he could, navigate the surface world without a thought. His father’s words are far from his mind as Atlanna takes his hand and together they leap from the water to twist through the air in a giddy rush. Orm falls back into the sea and laughs as he tumbles through a cloud of bubbles.

The surface does not seem so bad, after all.

 

 

 

The Royal Guard stop long before they arrive near the surface, but Arthur is happy to wave them off. Orm’s anger is like a cloak, wrapping him in fury so thick Arthur is sure he could feel it if he tried to touch. But that stubborn tilt of Orm’s jaw tells him that an escort in unnecessary.

Orm won’t run.

Pride is a wonderful thing, Arthur muses to himself as he guides them through the waters, following the steady incline along the ocean floor, up and up, sand giving way to jagged rocks and scattered coral. The waters are murky with silt, but there is a rhythmic flash that pierces through the gloom, a guiding light. Arthur smiles to himself. The old man must have turned on the lamp for them.

Orm’s face is tilted towards the light, but the shadows hide his expression from Arthur. He sighs, which somehow doesn’t feel as satisfying when in water, and wraps a hand around Orm’s bicep, tugging him to the surface.

The reaction happens too fast for Arthur to follow. He blinks as he rights himself, head still spinning dizzily from the blow.

“Do not,” Orm snarls, slamming his hands against Arthurs chest, “Presume to touch me.”

Arthur scowls, more than tempted to return the favour, to show exactly how much Orm does _not_ have the right to boss him around anymore, but he’d really rather not meet Atlanna on the jetty with a busted lip. Still, Arthur won’t take that kind of attitude lightly. Not when his head was still ringing.

“Then please make you royal way up to the friggin’ pier, your majesty,” Arthur sneers, bending at the waist and twirling his hands in a mocking bow.

Orm’s eyes flash dangerously. Arthur grins back, all teeth.

They break the surface next to the jetty, water lapping at the wooden poles. Arthur snorts. It’s a king tide. How fitting.

The moon shines down on them, glittering across the tip of each wave. He can see Orm clearly, his hair shining like silver rather than blonde in the moonlight as he keeps his face tipped towards the waves. Arthur frowns when Orm remains hunched over, face hidden in shadow, waves breaking over his neck and chin. There had never been this fear, this hesitation with Mera, and an unbidden knot of worry tangles in Arthur’s chest. He hesitates, pain still throbbing in his jaw, before tentatively reaching out towards the bowed silver head. A prickle across his skin makes him look up before he can touch. Beyond them, Atlanna stands on the end of the jetty, wrapped in a woollen shawl. She catches his eye, and gives a quick shake of her head. Arthur swallows, glancing between his mother and Orm, and slowly drops his hand.

The waves crash against the jetty, sending droplets raining down on them. At last, Orm tips back his head, eyes closed. Arthur half expects Orm to struggle, to gasp and gape like he’d seen other Atlanteans do at their first breath of water. But there is nothing inelegant about it, Orm’s lips opening with a soft sigh, slender throat bobbing with each rough swallow. Water beads across his skin like diamonds. Arthur stares, entranced at sight of the soft pink tongue that swipes at the droplets clinging to Orm’s lips. He opens his eyes, head still tipped back, and it’s beautiful, enthralling, the naked wonder that illuminates Orm’s face as he gazes up at the full moon sending something electric zinging through Arthur’s veins.

“You see?” Arthur says, half joking. “The surface isn’t so bad, after all.”

Orm turns to him, and Arthur bites his lip. In the moonlight, Orm’s eyes are oddly bright in a way they never were below of the surface, a piercing blue that feels as though it can see through him, past his half-breed skin to the awkward misfit below.

He can feel his mother’s eyes on him, still hears her words, and pushes away the nagging doubts crawling inside his head. He can’t afford them now, not when Orm must be more than uneasy just being here. A strange new world. Arthur swallows back the protective layers, lets himself be raw, open, and curls his lips into a small smile.

“Relax, brother,” he says softly. “I know this is all weird for you, and not, you know, _ideal_ , but I promise you, it’ll be okay. I’ll be here, and so will Mom.”

His brother cocks his head, considering. Pale fingers lift out of the water, hovering, before pressing lightly against the wet hollow of Arthur’s throat. He doesn’t move, barely dares to breathe as Orm watches him, fingers resting over the tattoos at the base of his neck. He shivers as those fingers drag against his skin, tracing the line of his collarbone, feather light, before dropping away. Something softens in Orm’s face, a vulnerable look in his eyes that makes him suddenly look far younger, boyish, and Arthur suddenly wants to touch, pull Orm close until he knows that he is safe here, safe with him.

“We’ll be with you. _I’ll_ be with you. It’ll be okay.” He repeats the words like a vow.

Orm tips his head back again, eyes on the moon. “As you say, my king.” His voice is soft, empty of the earlier anger. Painfully empty.

Arthur frowns and reaches out to grab Orm’s wrist, ignoring the sharp look he receives as he tugs him close, carefully curling his fingers around Orm’s before shooting him a challenging glare. He’s pleased to see Orm’s eyes are wide, pink lips parted slightly.

“Don’t be facetious, _brother_ ,” Arthur says lightly, “I said it, didn’t I? You’re not alone in this. We’re in it together.” He doesn’t, can’t, look back as he tugs Orm towards the jetty, Atlanna waiting for them with open arms. He feels a tug against his hand, fingers wriggling as they try to pull away, but still, he doesn’t look back as he squeezes his fingers tight around his brother’s hand. There is no answering pressure. But Orm doesn’t try and pull away again.

As they stumble onto the jetty, folded into Atlanna’s embrace around them both, Orm doesn’t let go of his hand. Arthur breaths slowly, steadily, as his mother welcomes them both back, hands cupping them around the neck. Orm’s hand is incredibly warm. Arthur smiles and gently untangles his hand from Orm’s, ignoring his sudden pounding heart that urges him to run, to swim, to get away, or at least lead him to the bottom of one or several bottles. He turns away without a word, leading them up the winding jetty towards the lighthouse, the sound of Atlanna’s gentle laughter and Orm’s murmured reply drifting through the air. Arthur grits his teeth at the sound, ignoring the pain as something hard deep inside him begins to crack.

“It’ll all be okay,” he murmurs to himself, and hates how completely pathetic he sounds.

Far above them, the lamp turns off in the lighthouse with a hollow snap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First comes the squishy emotions. Then comes the sex. And probably also some more emotions because Orm is just Like That™.


	2. Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you project a bit too hard onto a fictional character and you gotta take several months break from writing them ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I love Arthur with my whole ass, even though he is a bundle of issues wrapped up in sarcasm and violence and alcohol. My sweet boy just needs a hug from mum, dad, and baby bro.

Arthur winds his way up the wooden jetty, not bothering to slow down as Orm and Atlanna lag behind. Panic crawls under his skin, lighting him up like a live wire, the burst of adrenalin driving any coherent thought from his head. He speeds up, thinking of the mini fridge he keeps stocked for these moments, only to slow at the sight of his dad leaning against the white picket fence, arms crossed. Arthur blindly moves towards Tom, clasps him close and feels the panic recede as they touch forehead and nose, letting out his breath in a shaky exhale and tries to ground himself on the steadying grip of Tom’s hand at the back of his neck. A familiar touch amidst a slew of too new things.

Tom doesn’t move back, sliding his eyes to glance over Arthur’s shoulder. There is a crunch of gravel as Atlanna and Orm catch up to them. Arthur turns his body slightly, keeping them in his peripheral. Keeping the both of them in his sight. Panic buzzes in his head, drowning everything else out.

“ Kei te pēhea koe?” Tom murmurs lowly, eyes lingering on Orm as he stills, watching Tom back guardedly.

Arthur breathes again, slower, forcing his racing heart to calm; the familiar lilt of te reo dragging him back into himself, into the world only he and dad inhabit in their secluded lighthouse and all-American neighbours. “Kei te pai,” he mutters back with a shaky grin.

Tom’s eyes narrow, cutting sharply over to Orm again. He nods, but the dark look doesn’t quite leave his eyes, even as he claps Arthur’s back with a hearty grin. “Kia kaha” Tom says, and it cuts through Arthur like a knife, a familiar phrase from his days as a child, when he was crawling out of his own skin with anger and hate, and only his dad’s steadying hand holding him together.

Tom, always so perceptive, steps around him to greet Orm, wordlessly letting Arthur gather himself. He hates this, hates how small and lost he feels ever since he joined up with Mera and finally entered the world of his father’s second-hand stories and Vulko’s vague promises of a glittering, shining Atlantis. The rough equilibrium he’d created for himself, helping those in need between happy hours while drowning everything else out, all of that had been shattered. And he _hates_ feeling weak, itches to hit and kick until the pain inside him recedes. But for now, he gathers himself as best he can, shoves the fear curling in his chest down, and promises to chase it away at the bottom of a bottle after his Mom and Orm have gone to bed.

“Ready to see your first human home, little brother?”

He doesn’t mean to sound so flippant, so hostile, not when he can still feel fingers on his skin, how good it felt to tangle their hands together. He can’t forget that, can’t help how much he wants it, and the title slips out with a sneer on his lips, a reminder of the status between them. There’s a distant rattle of remembered chains. Arthur open his arms and tries to smile, but Orm’s dark look tells him he doesn’t quite manage to hide the dark curl of anger itching up his spin. Orm’s hands curl into fists, face smoothing into a perfect, deadly blankness. Arthur’s heart thunders in his chest, adrenaline sparking every nerve.

Atlanna steps between them to clasp Tom’s hand. The tight-strung fury building in his chest severs at the sight of her gentle smile, draining the violence out of both of them. How predictable they both are, how utterly alike. _We really are brothers_ , Arthur thinks wryly, ignoring the shard of panic spearing through him at the thought. He offers her an apologetic smile, pathetically pleased when her gaze softens, understanding warm in her eyes. He ignores the sharp little voice in his head calling tauntingly from across a distant schoolyard, _‘lost little Arthur looking for his mommy?_ ’ that rouses too-familiar anger.

“I’ll give you the tour,” Atlanna holds her free hand out, gathering Orm to her side to guide him up the verandah stairs.

Arthur trails after them, a tight heat squeezing his chest and stealing the air from his lungs. ‘ _Lost little Arthur_ ’ the school bullies shout across the echoes of time, _‘Why are you always alone, freak?’_. Grabbing his right wrist, he curls his fingers into the warm leather of his bracer to stop the tell-tale shake in his hand, stepping away from his mother without a word towards the kitchen and the case of Jack Daniels at the bottom of the mini fridge. He manages to down a bottle and get started on a second before Tom finds him, mouth pressed into a disapproving line.

“I just… need a minute,” Arthur whispers, pressing his forehead to the rapidly cooling glass bottle. Condensation trickles over his skin.

Tom sighs, glancing at the clock on the wall and gently pushes Arthur to the side to put the case back in the fridge. He plucks the empty bottle from Arthur’s hands and replaces it with a carton of eggs. “I’ll make an early breakfast for us, ok? Something to settle your stomach.”

Arthur ducks his head, shame heating his neck as Tom pulls out packets of bacon and a bag of mushrooms. His father doesn’t say a thing, hasn’t bothered to try and talk about the drinking since the explosive argument when he was sixteen, and Arthur knows, deep down, that it wasn’t fair what he did – disappearing like that, only to return a month later silent and cold, the wound splitting open his brow still trickling blood – it had been like giving his pops an ultimatum, a wordless promise that he’d rather cut his father off than face his issues. Arthur had never told Tom what had happened during that month, and Tom had never asked, even when Arthur comes home each day and the salt of the sea doesn’t quite mask the stench of alcohol seeping from his skin. He drinks elsewhere now, let’s himself get shitfaced in foreign lands and those he rescued happily keeping his cups full, alone in his own head until the alcohol drowns it all out.

Watching his pops putter around the kitchen in the middle of the night like it’s nothing, as though he was without a care in the world, sends the shard of ice deeper in Arthur’s heart, a familiar throbbing pain that urges him to grab the Jack Daniels back from the fridge.

“Thanks, Dad,” he murmurs, voice blending with the sizzle of the frying pan.

Tom shoots him a quick look as he reaches for the chopping board. “No backing down now,” he replies, nodding towards the lounge room. “You’ve still got work to do.”

He straightens his shoulders, throwing his chest out for Arthur to mimic him and the sadness fading into easy pride when Arthur stands tall, gathering himself the way his dad had always shown him, steadfast in the face of whatever the world threw at him.

When he steps into the lounge room to the surreal sight of Atlanna running a hand through Orm’s pale hair as she tucks a towel around his shoulders, Arthur desperately focuses on the smell of frying butter from the kitchen to ground him, a reminder of normalcy in the face of this weirdness. It’s fine, _he’s_ fine, his dad there to keep the insanity from spiralling out of control with the familiar sounds of breakfast cooking, even if it was three in the morning and his half-brother was dripping onto the Sunday crossword left on the coffee table.

Arthur pastes on a smile for Atlanna and Orm, frantically giving himself a silent pep talk when Atlanna’s expression flickers with concern, sure that his face shows too much of his thoughts. How bad can it be, really? Orm getting to know the surface world with that bitchy little sneer? Could be fun. No, it could be _hilarious_ , way better than having to be king. He’d need new clothes, new shoes, he’s probably never had a mushroom or a burger before, never listened to ACDC or ridden in the subway surrounded by the press of bodies. There were so many things Arthur could show him. He remembers the list tucked away in the back of his history notebook, everything middle-school Arthur thought he needed to show to his little brother when they finally met.

Long buried excitement shivers through him.

Oh, this is going to be so much _fun_.

The idea cheers Arthur considerably, smoothing his smile into genuine delight. Orm eyes him, blue eyes flashing with something dark, but Arthur doesn’t let his smile slip. “Our humble abode,” Arthur says with a flourish, playfully spinning in a circle with a deliberate flick of his still-wet hair.

Atlanna chuckles, indulgent even when Arthur comes up beside the sofa to towel off his hair and shower them in droplets. “Behave, Arthur,” she says, but her voice is mild, her eyes warm, and Arthur shrugs with an insolent grin just to see her unwavering smile. He focuses on that rather than the cold blankness that suddenly smooths Orm’s face. Atlanna’s expression flickers between them, smile dropping slightly as she stands with a final squeeze of Orm’s hand.

“I think we need some more blankets,” she announces to the room at large, touching Arthur’s shoulder as she leaves.

Arthur clears his throat, smiling at Orm. The expression feels odd on his face, but he tries to be open, friendly – he is welcoming his little brother into his home, and that’s a _good_ thing. “What do you think? Not too shabby for the surface,” he gestures awkwardly at the room at large.

Tilting his head slightly, Orm’s eyes flick down, raking over Arthur slowly. It burns like a physical thing, the weight of that gaze on him as he takes his measure, and Arthur suddenly is too aware of the missing button from his vest, the worn patches on the knees of his jeans, the messy tangle of his hair falling over his eyes. He tries not to shift when Orm meets his eyes, tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter how he looks. That it doesn’t matter that he can’t read a thing in those cornflower-blue eyes.

Orm glances away to eye the loungeroom, sitting on the worn sofa delicately, as though trying to keep himself from touching as much of it as possible. His hair is still slick with moisture, but a stray strand is begging to curl slightly against his forehead. The silvery scales on his undersuit flash as he shifts, taking in the room.

He shoots Arthur a bored look. “Repugnant.”

Arthur tries not to bristle, but it’s a near thing. Ungrateful little shit. “It’s not so bad,” he says instead, waving at the neatly organised mess. “We just put down a new coat of paint and everything. I did the walls myself, although Dad did the skirting board because he is a cruel, distrustful man. Hog Bristle White. Really makes the room pop, don’t you think?”

Orm blinks slowly, and Arthur pauses, wondering how many words he just said even made any sense to an Atlantean. “What is ‘paint’?” Orm says finally.

Arthur opens his mouth then shuts it with a frown, stumped at the unexpected question. “It’s… it’s _paint_. Do you not… It’s like... like coloured goo? And you put it on stuff.”

Orm raises a silver brow. “Stuff?” he repeats, lip curling in distaste.

Gesturing to the world at large, Arthur nods as authoritatively as he can. “Yeah. Walls, tables, terrible modern sculptures, Fabergé eggs. You know, _stuff_.”

At least Orm is not looking hoity-toity or pissed anymore, but the bewildered expression on his face brings its own set of problems, primarily to Arthur’s heart. And only his heart and _nowhere_ else, Arthur tells himself firmly.

“Eggs?” Orm says faintly.

Atlanna smiles over a pile of blankets, depositing them on the sofa. “You’re not being very clear, Arthur.”

He shoots a helpless look at her.

She laughs softly. “’Paint’ is what they use to decorate things,” she explains, as she arranges the pillows at the end of the sofa. “They use it on their walls instead of carvings or tattooing.”

Orm frowns, glancing at Arthur, at his _throat_ , and something flickers over his face as his fingers flex against the sofa cushions. Arthur swallows, stares at the shadowed indents of Orm’s nails against the fabric, the warning twitch of his fingers that betrays the smooth veneer of calm on his face.

Orm hadn’t hit him during their fight, hadn’t struck him even when Arthur did his best at being a shit-stirrer, snarling in his face and hoping they’d get into a scrap. Orm hadn’t touched him. Not without tridents between them. Never, except for that one touch in the water, calloused fingers brushing his throat and the vague idea in Arthur’s head of things gentling between them. He’d touched him over his ta moko, feathered his fingers over the dark lines of ink, curious and strangely familiar. There had been something in Orm’s eyes when he’d touched Arthur’s ta moko that had made his fingers feel like brands, burning something into his skin. The look in his eyes, it had been _hungry_. Orm had pulled away and there had been a tug in Arthur’s skin that dragged him to follow, and even in the careful distance, the hostility and warning flashing in Orm’s face, there had been a quick flicker of emotion that set every nerve in Arthur’s body on edge. It had looked like victory.

Through a haze, Arthur hears his name and struggles to focus back on the room. Atlanna is gazing at him expectantly, leaving Arthur floundering to remember if she’d asked him a question. Orm’s lips tick upwards in a faint smirk. Arthur reminds himself that punching his brother’s teeth in is probably not what Atlanna had in mind for them, and it’s not something he wants either. Not at all. Well, not that much, anyway.

“Erm, sorry?”

His mother smiles, patting the pile of cushions. “Do you need anything else?”

Arthur blinks at the sofa. Blinks at Atlanna’s patient smile, Orm’s smug little grin.

“Hang on, Orm’s sleeping here, isn’t he?” Arthur already knows the answer as the words leave his mouth, but he injects a little childish petulance to his voice, a practiced whine he’d perfected through the years on his dad. “My bed stinks, it’s all gross and… and there’s this little bump where the spring has come lose in the mattress, and I’m pretty sure the stain from Taco Bell is permanent, you can’t shift grease like that.”

Atlanna’s serene smile doesn’t waver one bit, leaving Arthur to despair that he’s managed to get the most annoyingly zen parents ever. The number of people able to see through his bullshit was getting alarmingly high in recent years – clearly Arthur was going to need to step up his game.

“Tom cleaned your room while you were gone, it should be lovely and fresh for Orm. He said you wouldn’t mind, and that you’d get to snuggle up with Verne down here as a bonus.”

Orm’s head jerks up, face going dangerously blank.

“Verne is our dog,” Arthur says quickly, pointing at the golden lab currently upside down in a pile of blankets, snoring softly. “Er,” he glances at Atlanna’s amused smirk, “Just so you know. Wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea or anything...” He trails off as Orm’s face remains blank, but there’s a dangerous glint to his eye that tells Arthur to stop talking immediately.

“Of course,” Orm says, every word dripping with venom, and Arthur tries desperately not to wilt under the wave of disdain being levelled at him.

Atlanna runs a hand down Arthur’s arm, giving his wrist a quick squeeze. “I’m sure Orm is most grateful you are giving up your living space for him,” she says soothingly, reaching for Orm.

Like a switch had been flipped, Orm is instantly calm once more, taking her hand with a soft smile.

‘Secret mom powers’, Arthur mouths at her, pouting when she continues to smile placidly, totally unruffled.

He tries one more time. “Wouldn’t he be more comfortable on this lovely snug sofa than my ratty old bed? I’m man enough to admit it would be enough to turn any person off of the surface world if that was the first bed _I_ slept in.” Orm in his bed. He _really_ doesn’t want to dwell on the stir of emotions _that_ image conjures up.

Orm’s smirk grows as he stands with easy grace, heading towards the stairs. “Repugnant,” he calls over his shoulder.

It is kind of horrifying that something hot swoops in his belly at Orm’s disdainful words. The base of his throat itches with remembered heat. Arthur hastily retreats to the kitchen and the promise of his Jack Daniels.

 

 

 

Arthur wakes with a groan, the tangled dream sensations of salty kisses and moonlight hair slipping away before he can capture them, and instead levels a scowl at the rising sun pouring through the curtains. Verne enthusiastically gives Arthur’s toes a lick over the edge of the sofa, before clambering up onto Arthur’s legs. There’s a quiet chuckle above his head.

He tips his head back over the armrest to send that scowl at his father as he hangs up his coat, the sweet damp of the morning clinging to him that makes Arthur’s nose itch.

“You could have closed the curtains,” he grumbles, snuggling into his blankets.

Tom snorts, giving Verne a quick scratch behind the ears. “Where would be the fun in that?”

Arthur tries to toe the blankets back over his feet. “What ungodly time is it anyway? ‘Cuz if you say a number that isn’t in the double digits, I’m going to be pissed.”

His dad shakes his head. “This is why you were never cut out to be a lighthouse keeper, son,” Tom says sadly, and Arthur pokes his tongue out in retaliation.

“Can I at least go back to sleep, oh revered Keeper of Lighthouse?” Arthur nudges Verne, but the dog simply huffs, resting his chin on Arthur’s hip.

“Actually, I was hoping you’d help me with the preparations.” Tom holds up a paper bag.

“What are you….” Arthur trails off when he finally notices the faint smell of smoke in the air. He sits up, aghast. Verne jumps up too, tail wagging frantically.

Arthur blinks incredulously. “A Hangi? Seriously? Why the heck are you treating Orm like a guest, giving him a Hangi after what he _did_? Dad, he started a war against his own people, and that’s not even touching on the crap he pulled up here.”

Tom stares back, completely unimpressed. “I’m aware, son. I was also under the impression you didn’t want your brother to be punished.”

“I didn’t want him to be _executed_ ,” Arthur corrects, aware that his reaction is ridiculous, but the anger won’t stop bubbling to the surface not matter how hard he tries to calm down. “But I haven’t forgotten what he did either. What he almost did to _you_.”

He turns away as his voice cracks, furiously blinking back the traitorous sting in his eyes.

“Neither have I,” Tom says quietly, placing a gentle hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “And to be perfectly honest, I will never forget the devastation, even if I can understand a little of the why from the Atlanteans point of view. But I need to put that aside if I hope to move forward. I remember what it was like for Atlanna, being here those first few months. I remember her pain, her loneliness, how difficult it was for her to start a new life away from everything she ever knew. And that still was a path she chose to take. It’s not like that for Orm, is it?”

Arthur says nothing, can’t open his mouth for fear of what might come spilling out. The urge to argue, to fight, itch under his skin like thorny vines, threatening to unravel him.

“I don’t pretend to understand everything he’s gone through, or whether he was justified or not; that’s not my place. All I know is that Atlanna loves him, and you care enough to bring him here. So I’ll do what I can to make the best of what looks to be a _long_ visit from your brother.” Tom sighs heavily, squeezing Arthur’s shoulder. “The Hangi is for both of you, son. To celebrate Orm’s arrival _and_ to celebrate your coronation.”

Arthur beams, delighted, before he catches the amused glint in his dad’s eye. “Don’t try and play me, old man,” Arthur mutters sulkily, but Tom merely grins.

“Since you’re so eager to punish your brother, you can go tell him to help get the food ready.”

Arthur straightens with delight, more than ready to boss Orm around the kitchen. Chores, Arthur thinks dreamily. Orm was going to _hate_ it.

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Tell him you’re both on potato peeling duty.”

Arthur’s mouth drops open in horror.

His dad slaps Arthur’s shoulder, smirking from ear to ear like the traitor he is. “Don’t you question me on how to welcome quests into my house,” Tom says through his teeth, and even after fighting a war and riding a giant sea monster, Arthur shrinks under his dad’s disapproving gaze.

“You’re as bad as the aunties,” Arthur says mutinously as he slinks away, but quietly, just in case. A sharp warning click of his dad’s tongue has him scurrying away faster.

As he makes his way up the staircase, Arthur’s eagerness fades into trepidation. The landing creaks as he steps carefully into the darkened hallway. The door to his dad’s bedroom is firmly closed, a strange sight after a lifetime of his dad keeping the door ajar to remind Arthur that he was never far away, the frequent nightmares he’d had as a boy long gone. Now it’s his mother’s nightmares that keep the door closed. Arthur shivers, pushing those thoughts away. Mom had Dad again, and he was seeing her through the worst of it. Now Arthur had his own skittish Atlantean to worry about.

He pauses in front of his bedroom door, debating whether he should bother to knock. It would be good manners to knock, he reasons, seeing as taking Orm unawares would be a rather risky thing to do. Except… This would be a rare opportunity. Seeing Orm like that, relaxed and, Arthur swallows, _vulnerable_. It would do him good. Help him put aside this gnawing anger and fear that has him so on edge to see his baby brother being soft with sleep. _Yeah_ , Arthur nods to himself, _let’s go with that_. Despite picturing his dad’s disapproving scowl at his rudeness, he cracks open the door as softly as he can and pushes into the room.

The room is almost completely dark, his favourite blackout curtains cutting out any of the morning sun. He blinks, eyes instantly adjusting to the gloom. The clock radio bathes the room in red, but above him the faded glow-in-the-dark stickers still emit a faint green light, a sea of stars across his ceiling. It’s strange not having to pick his way across the room, the floor abnormally clear of scattered notes and empty pizza boxes, but at least it makes it easier to creep up beside his bed. There’s a lump of blankets in the middle of the bed, twisted into a knot, but even in the gloom, Arthur can just make out a few silvery strands in the centre. There’s a swooping sensation in his belly, terribly familiar. He freezes beside the bed, heart suddenly hammering as the painful squeeze in his chest begins to fade.

There’d been a flicker of thought that had crossed his mind, a stir of emotion he couldn’t put a name to without screaming. _This isn’t it_ , he tells himself desperately. _This isn’t what you think it is._

Arthur shudders, steeling himself to reach out to rouse Orm, only to freeze again.

A single cornflower-blue eye stares at him from beneath the heavy folds of the blankets, glittering with malice.

Arthur swallows. “What’re you looking at?” His voice is rough, too accusatory to be mistaken for kindness. He can’t help the kneejerk reaction, not while those _thoughts_ are still simmering away at the edge of his mind.

There’s a quiet hum from the cocoon of blankets, before they shift as Orm sits up, sheets wound around his arms and throat like shackles. Arthur looks away.

“I was waiting to see what you would do.” Orm’s voice is a sibilant whisper in the darkness, viciously cold. “I had imagined this would come sooner, but I can see why you might wait for Mother to fall asleep first before coming for me. A knife in the darkness, how very fitting.”

This time, Arthur actually recoils, the hurt lancing through him before the anger can rise up and quash it. “What, you think I came in here to kill you? A little pre-breakfast assassination, really get my appetite going?” His words are a snarl, sneering and cruel in a way that he hasn’t been in a while, but in the face of his anger Orm’s face smooths into something pleased. That infuriates Arthur more than the accusation, _knowing_ he’s being manipulated to this like an idiot and yet he can’t stop the furious clench of his hands, wanting to strike and strike until he paints his room in Orm’s blood for fucking with him like this. That he can think Arthur is some sort of _monster_.

“Do you truly believe I am unaware of your true feelings?” Orm says, silky soft, and now Arthur trembles in fear, horror crawling over his skin when Orm’s lips twist into a knowing smile. “Do you think I cannot see past your false smiles and half-hearted attempts at familiarity? I was teethed on politics and falsehoods while you were still a brawling mud monkey barely able to swim.” Arthur’s heart clenches, half believing the horrible truth is still his secret, still locked away in the filthy corner of his heart, before Orm shifts, kneeling on the bed and the sheets uncoiling around his waist, dipping low enough to reveal the sharp cut of his hip and the shadowed indent of his groin.

Arthur hisses in a breath, drags his eyes away. He’s not supposed to look. He didn’t look. He _didn’t_.

“Yeah, ok, you think you’ve got me pegged,” Arthur says, trying not to wince at his choice in words. Fucking freudian slip and a half, Jesus Christ. “But you’re so ready to paint me as the bad guy, when newsflash bro, I’m not the one who thought pre-emptive genocide was the way to go.”

Orm sneers, leaning forward, stomach muscles rippling as the sheets unspool entirely. Arthur grits his teeth, sure now that this must be on purpose, some fucking game Orm is playing. Playing him like a goddamn fiddle. He refuses to move as Orm gets in his space, refuses to give him the satisfaction even as his stomach tightens, and electricity sparks his skin at the sight of that plush mouth curving into a knife-sharp smile.

“How self-righteous you are, that you so quickly forget the lives you took with your new queen that day,” Orm says, harsh breath blowing hot across Arthur’s face. “Do you think you are the rightful king and not I, who was born to it? You, who took your crown in blood and violence? You, who are only accepted by that trident, by ancient legend and not by any worth of yours, when all you know is blunt force?” His eyes flash with victory when Arthur flinches at his words, the echoed screams of schoolyard bullies and a drowning man in a submarine rattling inside his head. “Do you think you shall be a cruel king, ruling through fear and subjugation? The Atlanteans are not unfamiliar with that after my father, so I’m sure you will have no difficulty placing them under heel once more. With Atlan’s trident and the Karathan under your control, you can subdue all those who would oppose you.”

Orm tilts his head, raising his hand as through to touch, and Arthur’s body clenches at the movement. Orm pauses, eyes flashing again as he stills his hand, hovering between their bodies.

“Or perhaps,” Orm’s voice turns musing, deliberately mournful, “You will be an absent king, blind to the troubles of your people, negligent of your duties as your kingdom falls to ruin. After all, it is not as though you ever _wanted_ the crown, did you now? Your wild, unruly heart reviles us too much to ever want such a gift.”

A single finger touches his chest, right over his heart.

Arthur reacts without thought, grabbing Orm’s wrist and lunging forward with a snarl. They go down in a tangle of sheets, Orm trying to grab at him viper-quick, but Arthur has the advantage on land, has the momentum, and it’s easy, so sweetly easy, to get his forearm against Orm’s throat and press, heedless of the hand in his hair pulling so sharply he can feel his scalp split.

“Don’t try to turn this on me, little brother, not when you brought all this shit on yourself.” Arthur grins as nails bite into his arm, bares down even harder into the blazing heat of the body beneath him. Orm grunts, the softness of the mattress preventing him from truly choking but the fury in his eyes only grows sharper, colder. Arthur sneers, bends until his nose brushes against Orm’s. “You started this the moment you decided having everything wasn’t enough. Mom may be ready to blame it all on Orvax, but we both know it was you that chose this. _You_ took innocent lives because of your own xenophobia, not because your daddy didn’t love you enough. Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you did. Not for one second do you think I’ve turned a blind eye to the death and destruction _you_ caused.”

Orm tilts his head back, twisting away as best he can. “How righteous you are to think my actions are unwarranted. That I’m so unforgiveable when I did what was right for _my_ people, when you so readily accepted Mera despite _her_ crimes.”

“Trying to stop a genocidal manic from killing the surface world isn’t what I’d call a crime,” Arthur snarls, satisfied when anger flickers over Orm’s face at the barb.

“Oh dear. Has Mera not divulged her sorted past? That will make quite the interesting conversation on your wedding night,” Orm sneers.

A sharp heel drives into Arthur’s back, right against his tailbone that sends pain sparking up Arthur’s spine. He’s still gasping when Orm yanks back on Arthur’s hair, enough space between them for Orm to shove his knee between them and push hard, sending Arthur flying back off the bed. He lands on the floor with a grunt, barely able to catch his breath before Orm slams into his sternum with his knee, hands twining into Arthur’s hair again to yank his head back, exposing his throat.

“Do you think I am here because of _your_ mercy, brother?” Orm snarls, grinding the heel of his hand into Arthur’s temple, fingers biting into his scalp until warm sticky blood wets his hair. “Do you think pardoning me is some sort of victory? Or is this brotherly love that moves you to bring me into your home and let me sit beside your filthy surface-dweller father and believe I couldn’t break open his skull with a single strike?”

Arthur hisses, fingers skidding along Orm’s smooth skin under he reaches a roughly scaled patch and presses until he feels the creak of Orm’s ribs, digs his nails into the shocking heat that burns in a way human skin does not. “I’d kill you before you even touched him,” Arthur warns, thrusting his hips up to try and dislodge Orm, who simply smirks and shifts higher, letting his knee slide off Arthur’s sternum to lock his thighs against the sides of Arthur’s chest. His smile widens as Arthur stills, the feeling of Orm’s weight settling on him, the heat of his cock pressing against Arthur’s chest that makes him shiver despite himself.

“Your mercy is a weakness, Arthur. It will destroy you,” Orm says, voice strangely soft despite the anger still twisting his features. “Mother may have chosen you, Vulko and Mera may have chosen you, but you will _never_ be worthy of their faith in you. Your tender heart will lead you to ruin.”

The hand in Arthur’s hair loosens, drags down over his face to rest once again over his heart. Arthur stills, heart thundering as something loosens in Orm, the hard edges bleeding away to reveal something raw. Taking a chance, Arthur gentles his own hands, swiping his thumbs against the bumps of Orm’s ribs before sliding lower, cupping the hard jut of his hip bones. Orm sighs softly, hips rocking slightly and Arthur twitches his thumbs, presses them into the soft skin just above Orm’s stirring cock. Above him, Orm watches him through half-lidded eyes, hips still rocking gently as his left hand absently twists in Arthur hair, a gentle tug that goes right to Arthur’s dick.

“Then it wasn’t mercy when you spared my life in the palace? You could have had me executed, or banished, or anything at all, but instead you put me in chains and gave me a chance to fight in front of everyone. And that wasn’t mercy?” he asks quietly and watches a terrible light spring into Orm’s eyes, his fingers traces over the ink-lines of Arthur’s ta moko.

“Perhaps that was it,” Orm says slowly. “Yes, perhaps it was mercy.”

 

His brother is beautiful.

It is a shock, a hateful revelation, but Orm cannot think of anything else when Murk drags him into the cell-rooms that his mother once called home. The room remains furnished despite the long years that had passed since she’d been taken, but Orvax had not faulted Orm’s rationale that it could serve as a reminder. ‘A reminder of the consequences of treachery’, Orvax had said, and Orm had nodded obediently, eagerly agreeing with anything to keep the last traces of her with him. It is a fitting prison for his brother, the little sneak stealing away into his own kingdom, like a common criminal. Like an outsider.

His mother’s old rooms were nothing like the cells beneath the palace, cold and severe without light or sound, but instead were properly furnished befitting royalty, recordings, books, even a holo-wall that flickered with neon images of plays and advertisements. The surveillance was well hidden in the walls, a pulsing light that monitored the inhabitants, the impenetrable glass that revealed the kingdom bustling below it, a beautiful cage. A room fit for a king. His brother could rot in here for the rest of his days, if he was so eager to trade his surface world for Atlantis at last.

Orm smiles as they drag his brother’s unconscious body into the room, cups his lolling head in his hands and tips back his brother’s face, greedily cataloguing each feature. There is no longer any softness of childhood, no smooth lines and delicate features that could be called beautiful, but Orm thinks it all the same. It is a hard beauty, enthralling for its strangeness. Such dark skin, warm brown from the sunlit world, so at odds with Orm’s own pale flesh. The strange brown hair floats around his brother’s head, the dark strands lightening into a golden blond at the ends. Half and half. Entranced, Orm catches a floating lock, winding it around his finger. “Not yet.” He whispers the promise over the hair entwining his finger, pale gold just like hers. “But I can change that. I can show you.”

“My king?” Murk says quizzically and Orm stiffens, blinking away the tangle of thoughts in his head.

“Chain him,” he orders, words halting. “He will not be staying here. The errant son of my mother should be sentenced before all the court. They have a right to see this would-be usurper before we lock him away for good.”

“He is strong, my king. Stronger than most,” Murk says shrewdly, tilting his head when Orm levels him a sharp glare. “Perhaps we should collar him, just to be sure.”

Orm pauses, considering, his brother’s head lolling against his wrist and slack mouth brushing over his skin. A simple press of his thumb to the underside of his brother’s jaw tips his head back, exposing his throat. There are markings there, strange patterns that swirl across his skin. Orm feathers his fingers over the dark lines, frowns when his fingers skate against the thin black material of his brother’s clothing.

“Collar him?” Orm says absently, fingers dipping beneath the black material and skating over a cord, following it down until his fingers meet smooth stone. “In front of the whole court?”

“It would be prudent, my king. Your brother is still a half-breed, volatile and barbaric.”

The stone is surprisingly hot, warmed by his brother’s skin, and yet it almost thrums with energy the second Orm’s hand closes around it. He pulls it from his brother’s clothing, cradling the green stone in his palm. He half-imagines it is beating, a tiny stone heart cupped in his hands.

He slips it around his neck, tucking it into his undersuit. Murk follows the motion, but obediently lowers his eyes at Orm’s sharp look.

“Yes, that would be best. Who knows why this traitorous cur has come home- come _here_ at last.” Orm silently curses his slip of the tongue, but Murk doesn’t seem to notice, dipping a quick bow.

Orm pulls his hand free of his brother’s hair, the strands catching around his finger, jerking his fingers over the soft heat of his brother’s slack mouth. He takes the moment to dip inside, presses the pads of his fingers against a rough tongue, and shivers that the warmth of his brother’s lips. The stone burns against Orm’s skin, branding his flesh as the guards enter with armfuls of chains, dragging his brother’s lax body away. Orm moves towards the door, pushes himself past the sudden pounding inside his head that urges him to wind his hands in that hair and _pull_.

“Oh, and Murk?” Orm drums his fingers against the doorway, straight-backed and cold, the way his father taught him. _Do not look back,_ his father’s voice tells him as his mother’s body fades into the darkness of the Trench. He doesn’t turn his head, even as the clank of steel echoes in the room, the chains grinding over the stone floor. “Strip him down. Show them just how different this half-breed bastard brother of mine truly is from the rest of us.”

“As you wish, my king,” Murk replies with a cruel relish.

Orm floats to his rooms across the hall, considers the silvery helm that sits perched at the edge of the room. He brushes a finger against it, frowning at the cool metal, the silver matching the soft coral peal of the room. He can picture it, his silver and purple armour one with the throne room. A flick of his fingers sending his attendants to fetch his gold armour. If his brother wanted to sulk about and hide, even when coming here after all this time, well then, Orm would just have to show them all. Gold befitting a true king, a true descendant of Atlan, and not this sun-warm pretender. Strip him bare and reveal to him how much lesser he is, how unworthy. He would not allow his brother to sneak in, hide away again and again when surely he came to seek Orm out. Sure to sweep in with burning eyes and sweet words to take everything Orm had, like he had any right to it. Like he had any claim to him.

He would show his brother exactly who he was. How great a king he was.

And all the court would _see_ exactly who was better.

As the Attendants tighten the straps of the heavy golden armour, as bright as sunlight, the strange green stone presses against Orm’s skin, right above his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Te reo translation:  
> Kei te pēhea koe? - How are you?  
> Kei te pai - Fine/Good.  
> Kia kaha - Be strong, to encourage when someone is struggling.
> 
>  
> 
> Still thinking about Orm's decision to strip off his brother and collar him in front of the whole court. Either Atlanteans are kinksters or Orm is. But seriously, where did Arthur's pounamu necklace go when he was chained. Just sayin.


End file.
